


Mixed Signals

by CommunionNimrod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Jealous John, M/M, Oh yes, Pining John, Sherlock ruins another relationship, and John realizes things, and sex, there is tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/pseuds/CommunionNimrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks throwing a Christmas party at 221B might help recreate a spark between him and his girlfriend, Jeanette.  Sherlock, as he usually does, throws a wrench in it.  However, there was more behind Jeanette's tension than John realized.  She noticed things, things John himself did not.  Things that John is finally forced to come to terms with.  Can he, and if so, will he actually have the guts to act on it?  Written for the 2014 Exchangelock Holiday Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mixed Signals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatieBrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatieBrie/gifts), [Teh_Poet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teh_Poet/gifts).



John hadn’t been able to pinpoint it, but recently there had been an unspoken tension between him and his girlfriend, Jeanette. They’d been dating for a few months, and things had been going really well, he had to say. They’d been much better off than his last relationship, that was for sure.  Even still, his life _had_ been rather hectic recently too.  That had to be at least part of the reason, because he couldn’t think of any other factors for it.

 

He’d been swept up in this case involving Irene Adler, and had (not for the first time) been threatened at gunpoint by a damn American, dealt with a drugged Sherlock, and now she was… just gone. They’d picked up another small case after that, barely needing a week to solve it, and it was back to life as normal. He was working the surgery again, taking Jeanette out for dinners and movies, and while his infuriating flatmate crashed a couple of those and he’d had to cancel one or two, it had felt like he had a pretty good thing going.   However, as he’d come home to Baker Street after yet another night of sleeping on Jeanette’s sofa, John began to wonder if they weren’t going as well as he’d thought.

 

“We should have a Christmas party,” he blurted out as he was thinking about all of this, before Sherlock could have the chance to deduce his restless sleep and make matters worse.  The detective paused from where he was walking across the sitting room, glancing at him before moving to fall into his leather chair.

 

“Why, exactly?” Sherlock asked, eyes slanting slightly. John shifted under the gaze. Sometimes he thought he was used to that scrutiny with which the younger man always regarded him, but apparently not. Casually, he glanced back down at the paper sitting open in his lap.

 

“Because it would be nice,” he shrugged. “Get the whole gang together, some food, drinks, enjoy each other’s company without a dead body in the middle of it all.”

 

“That sounds excruciating.  It’s an awful idea.  The dead bodies are what make them all tolerable,” Sherlock dismissed, waving a hand through the air nonchalantly.

 

“Sherlock,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is my flat too, you know.  I think we should have a Christmas party.”

 

“It is clear that this whole thing is an attempt to repair the strain on your-“ Sherlock started, and John felt himself tense subconsciously.  There was a moment of thick silence between the two of them, and finally John looked over at him evenly.  The man didn’t need to say it; John knew what he had deduced.

 

Did he want to throw a Christmas party just to have something to bring Jeanette to?  Was it really just a stupid attempt to make her feel involved again? Maybe.  He honestly couldn’t be arsed.  Tilting his chin, he stared over at his flat mate and dared him to finish the deduction.

 

“Do whatever you like,” Sherlock snapped finally, breaking the silence and standing, striding past and into the kitchen.

 

John blinked.  That… hadn’t quite been what he had expected.  He was shocked that Sherlock didn’t finish the deduction. Did he do it to spare him? Maybe?  John sighed, running a hand through his hair and reaching for his phone.  He didn’t really care what his reasoning was; he still wanted to throw the party. It would do them all some good. Get some festive cheer into the flat, give them a reason to relax after the insanity as of late with Irene Adler and some of the strained cases they’d dealt with recently…

 

John needed some normality in his life. Sherlock probably didn’t think he did, but it would do him some good too.  John knew it would.  A normal, calm, festive Christmas party just felt right this year.  So, it was with a determined nod that he texted Jeanette and got the plans under way.

 

*

 

Christmas decorations.  They had no Christmas decorations.  While John thought Sherlock might experiment on him in his sleep if he completely covered the place, they had to have a little something going on at least.  Mrs. Hudson came to the rescue, as she always did, though John had still made a few trips out to the shoppes to pick up odds and ends to help get into the mood for the party.

 

The party was going to be on Christmas Eve, John had decided.  He was planning a trip to his sister’s on Christmas Day, and he knew at least Greg also had family plans, so Christmas Eve worked out perfectly.  Even better, Jeanette seemed rather pleased at the idea of the get-together, so that helped majorly lift his spirits.  He was in such a good mood that he didn’t even feel too pissed off when Sherlock set the kitchen counter on fire that morning.  Even if his infuriating flatmate _had_ been trying to set some of the garland on fire…

 

“Good lord, John, exactly how many fairy lights do you plan on littering our flat with?” Sherlock asked later that afternoon, as John was standing on a chair and hanging said fairy lights around their mirror, attaching it to the remaining garland he’d been able to rescue from destruction.  There was already a few strings hanging off of the fireplace itself, as well as some on the kitchen cabinets, and he had more planned for the tops of the windows as well.

 

“Hush, it’s festive,” John scolded jokingly, grinning as he glanced over at the detective.  His response came in the form of a huff as Sherlock turned back to his microscope.  John watched him fondly for a moment before turning back to finish untangling and stringing up the lights in his hands.

 

He had never been able to figure out what it was about the act of decorating for the holidays that caused you to get in the mood for the holidays.  John had never been huge on Christmas, really.  Sure, there was a joyous element to it, but there was also a bit of sadness around the season as well.  Being in the army, it was something they had really felt when they were all stuck over in Afghanistan with a mockery of the Christmas dinner they knew everyone would be enjoying back home.  Plus, with Harry’s drinking and his mum dying, there hadn’t been quite as much cause for celebration in a while.  This year, though… There was something about it this year that John couldn’t quite pinpoint. He wasn’t going to try and analyze it, though. 

 

Unlike Sherlock, he didn’t need to understand all the inner workings of every little thing in order to just enjoy what was happening. Christmas at Baker Street was going to be brilliant.  Christmas with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly… Jeanette.  Of course.  John was so chuffed he could barely keep himself from humming Christmas carols as he moved about the flat.

 

*

 

“Why is there a hat on Billy?”

 

“Hmm?” John hummed, glancing up from his laptop to look at Sherlock, who was standing in front of the fireplace and staring.

 

“Billy,” Sherlock repeated in annoyance, pointing to the skull sitting at the edge of the fireplace mantel.  John’s mouth quirked up in a small smile; just last night he had taken a fuzzy Santa had and plopped it on the skull.

 

“So the skull has a name now,” John said instead, fixated on the fact that he’d called it Billy.  It was bizarre, but also rather endearing.

 

“The skull has always had a name, stop changing the subject John.  It’s tiring.”

 

“He wanted to be festive.”

 

“Skulls cannot want, and even if they did, I can assure you Billy would not want to be impersonating a large fat man dressed in red,” Sherlock stated, plucking at the large white ball at the end of the hat.

 

“Just leave it,” John fussed. “The party is tomorrow, and then after that we can rescue Billy from his obvious embarrassment.”

 

“Oh.  Right. The party,” Sherlock deadpanned. “That’s why the mantel is covered in ridiculously cheery cards and my knife is no where to be seen.”

 

“Yes, because having it jammed into the wood is a much more appropriate spot than in a drawer.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

John opened his mouth to say something else, but the words were silenced as a rather erotic moan sounded from across the room. Sherlock instantly abandoned his examination of the Santa hat to glance over his shoulder.  After a moment more, he turned on his heel and headed over to where he had left his mobile a few hours earlier.

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose. _Forty-nine_. That was forty-nine bloody texts Sherlock had been getting from whomever programmed his mobile to make that noise when they contacted him.  Every time John heard it, he was filled with an intense annoyance that made him want to take the stupid device and chuck it against the wall.  He flexed his right hand, extending his fingers and clenching a few times, before letting out a deep breath through his nose and turn his attention back to his laptop.

 

He couldn’t focus, though.  Sherlock had never told him who it was that continued to text him, but John wasn’t dumb.  They had started shortly after their encounter with Irene Adler, and the woman’s voice… No doubt it was her that was texting.  There weren’t many people that would make Sherlock check his mobile so frequently.  There was probably no one, really.  John doubted that Sherlock cared to check his mobile right away when he texted.

 

Maybe that was the issue.  Sherlock was more interested in The Woman than his own bloody flatmate.  John wasn’t one to get jealous over something so ridiculous, but he couldn’t help the way it seemed to bother him.  Needless to say, it made him incredibly irritable.  He barely even smiled later on that evening when Jeanette phoned.

 

*

 

“Hoo hoo!” came the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s normal call as the landlady made her way up the stairs.  John could practically hear the disdain in Sherlock’s sigh that followed immediately after, and he barely held back a snort. For as much as Sherlock clearly adored the woman, he was great at pretending like her existence was the most taxing thing ever.

 

“Evening, Mrs. Hudson,” he called out from where he was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of wine.

 

“Oh, good evening John,” she greeted as she wandered in. “Goodness that smells wonderful.”

 

“Mulled wine,” he smiled, setting the spoon down and turning.  He blinked at the tray in her arms. “What’s all that, then?”

 

“Oh, nothing much,” Mrs. Hudson responded as she walked over to set it down on the table. “Some cheeses and biscuits, sandwiches… Just stuff I had lying about down there.”

 

“You certainly didn’t need to go to all that trouble,” John said, shaking his head as he made his way over to inspect everything.

 

“John, you know very well she would anyway,” Sherlock called out from the sitting room, where he was standing and staring out the window.

 

“He means thank you,” John muttered. Mrs. Hudson chuckled as she picked up a pair of felt antlers that had been sitting on one corner of the tray.

 

“I know very well, dear,” she smiled, and then waved the antlers around. “He better watch himself, I brought these up specifically for him.”

 

John grinned at the thought of seeing Sherlock wearing fake antlers like that.  What a brilliant thing… Perhaps he could get them coaxed on at some point in the evening. That would certainly make his Christmas, especially with the irritable expression that was bound to come with it. Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder and began moving a few things to the fridge to keep cool, while John went back to the wine and began stirring again.

 

Slowly, people trickled in.  It wasn’t a huge event, because they honestly didn’t have many actual friends, but Jeanette showed, followed shortly by Greg. John had invited Sarah but she had already made travel plans.  Wine was shortly dispersed and Jeanette was in the kitchen with John, unloading a tray of pies and cakes that she had brought with her onto a plate.

 

“Ta for these, they look great,” John smiled at his girlfriend, kissing her on the cheek, before picking up the beer he had just opened for himself and a tea for Mrs. Hudson, who had somehow snuck enough wine already that she was giggling and grinning at every little thing. In the sitting room, Sherlock had began to play We Wish You A Merry Christmas on his violin (at Mrs. Hudson’s very insistent request), and even though he had offered a bit of a fuss over it, once the music was flowing he was as content as anyone had ever seen him.

 

“Of course,” Jeanette nodded, smiling slightly as she picked up the tray.  John had already started to turn, watching his flatmate with a smile.  He glanced at Greg as he made his way into the sitting room, who was holding his own wine glass and also watching with fascination.

 

Sherlock playing could entrance everyone in the room. Unless you were Mycroft of course. Jeanette didn’t seem too overly impressed herself, which John thought odd, because she loved music and Sherlock was just so talented.  In fact, his girlfriend really had yet to loosen up any at all, in spite of the gathering having been underway for close to an hour now.  John had thought she would be enjoying herself a bit more. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

 

“Lovely, Sherlock, that was lovely!!” Mrs. Hudson fawned as Sherlock brought the song to an end with a bit of flair that had John grinning.  Since his hands were full and he could not clap along with everyone else, he whistled as he made his way over to them.

 

“Mmmm, marvelous!” he agreed, his gaze on Sherlock as he stopped next to the chair their landlady was sitting in.

 

“I wish you could have worn the antlers,” Mrs. Hudson said with a giggle, gesturing above her head.  John bit his lip, trying to hold back his smirk.  Yeah, he had wished so too.

 

“Some things are better left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock commented, waving his bow around a bit. John smiled happily before glancing down and holding out the cup of tea in his hand.

 

“Mrs. H,” he prompted, handing it over to her. She beamed up at him and mouthed a thank you, moving to set her half-empty wine glass aside and bring the teacup close to her.  John was incredibly grateful that all she had to do was go downstairs at the end of the night, but even so, he hoped the tea would help to sober her up a bit.

 

Next to him, John overheard the beginnings of another Sherlock-created disaster with his girlfriend as she quietly offered the detective some of the stuff on the tray she had put together. He felt a brief bit of panic. Bloody hell, _Sarah_?  He jumped into action, quickly moving over as he noticed the irritation and offense on Jeanette’s face, putting an arm around her and rubbing her back gently.

 

“Uh, no no no no, he’s not good with names,” he said hurriedly, flashing Sherlock a glare that very clearly said _stop while you’re bloody ahead_.  However, this was Sherlock.  So, he either didn’t recognize the irritated threat in his gaze, or he just simply didn’t care.  John would hazard to guess that it was the latter.

 

“No no no, I’ve got this,” Sherlock said, dismissing John’s wishes and causing the older man to fill with dread. There was no way this couldn’t go badly. Jeanette was putting down the tray as Sherlock shut his eyes. “No, Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots; and then the one with the nose; and then… who was after the boring teacher?”

 

“Nobody,” Jeanette said when John couldn’t gather his words in time.  She had crossed her arms tightly around her, and John wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

 

“Jeanette!” Sherlock announced, grinning an undeniably fake grin. “Ah, process of elimination.”

 

“Let’s… go over here,” John muttered, awkwardly turning and leading Jeanette over to his chair.  She hardly looked at him for a moment, sighing and finally offering him a tight smile as she sat down in the chair.  John squeezed her hand gently and tried smiling back, but there was no denying how awkward and embarrassing that moment had been for them both. Bloody Sherlock. John couldn’t understand why it was always so hard for him to remember, or at least keep his mouth shut instead of trying to do every subtle thing possible to make his relationships crash and burn.

 

Molly showed up immediately after, helping to distract a bit from the train wreck that had just occurred.  Of course Sherlock went on with his usual flair; embarrassing Greg, making snarky about his sister Harry, and proceeding to go off on one of his wild deductions about “Molly’s new boyfriend”.  John sat on the arm of his chair, leaning closer to Jeanette during the whole thing, restraining himself from downing his beer in one go. Of course he would make an arse of himself, and John felt awful for Molly.  Even at his and Greg’s attempts to get him to hush, because it was clear as day why Molly had dressed up so nicely, Sherlock liked to talk before he spoke.

 

However, to hear Sherlock say the words “I’m sorry, forgive me” sent John for a loop.  He stared, shifting his gaze between his flatmate and the rather hurt Molly, watching the entire thing unfold as he actually leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. John could hardly believe what he was seeing.  Spirit of Christmas and all, he supposed, but even still… What… He pressed his lips together and gripped his beer bottle just a little bit tighter.

 

No sooner had Sherlock straightened that the damn ringtone sounded again.  That bloody moan. John pressed his mouth even tighter, eyes locked on Sherlock’s unfazed form.

 

“No!  That wasn’t… I d-didnt,” Molly started to stutter, incredibly flustered by it.

 

“No, it was me,” Sherlock interrupted, glancing down a bit.

 

“My God, really?!” Greg burst out, and John let out a sigh.  His shoulders were tense and all he wanted to do was take the damn mobile and toss it out the bloody window.

 

“My phone,” Sherlock sighed, barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes as he reached into his pocket to pull out the mobile in question.  John’s eyes narrowed, and he wasn’t able to keep his mouth shut anymore.

 

“Fifty-seven?” he asked, voice hard. Jeanette glanced between Sherlock and John, but John barely noticed.

 

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked, turning and unlocking his mobile.  Not at all paying attention to John.  His irritation flared.

 

“Fifty-seven of those texts,” he explained. “The ones I’ve heard.”

 

“Thrilling you’ve been counting,” Sherlock muttered, walking over towards the fireplace and not even looking in John’s direction. Because apparently it was too much trouble to look away from that little screen for one bloody moment. Sighing, John brought the beer bottle to his lips and took a long drink.  Jeanette was leaning away from him now, arm against the other armrest, but John was admittedly a bit too fixated trying to see what on the mantel was catching Sherlock’s attention to notice or care.

 

“Excuse me,” Sherlock announced after a moment, a small box now in his hand as he turned and quickly made his way through to the kitchen. John had been in the middle of leaning over and wrapping his arm around Jeanette when he passed, making the older man sit ramrod straight again, turning to watch him go.

 

“What- What’s up, Sherlock?” he asked, blinking at how abruptly Sherlock was excusing himself from the sitting room.

 

“I said excuse me.”

 

The sound of Sherlock walking down the hall and shutting his bedroom door echoed in the almost uncomfortably silent flat. Molly was taking big drinks of her wine, Greg shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared down at the glass in his hands, while John and Mrs. Hudson were watching where Sherlock had left.

 

John drummed his fingers against the neck of his bottle nervously.  A bit of time ticked by and his flatmate had yet to emerge.  He chewed on his bottle lip and glanced over at Mrs. Hudson, who seemed a bit concerned herself, and then sighed.

 

“I’m just… gonna…” John started, setting his beer down and standing.  He gestured towards their hallway before sighing through his nose and heading into the kitchen.

 

He clenched and unclenched his hand as he came to a stop outside of Sherlock’s bedroom door.  He could hear the muffled baritone of the man’s voice on the other side, and licking his lips, he wrapped a hand around the doorknob and turned. He leaned as he opened the door, poking his head inside just barely, brow furrowed.

 

“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead,” Sherlock was saying to someone on the phone.  John blinked.  Who was dead? He straightened as Sherlock’s head turned, and watched as he stood from the bed and hung up the phone.

 

“You okay?” he asked as Sherlock closed in on him.

 

“Yes.”

 

The door was shut in John’s face. Sherlock hadn’t even looked at him. John just stood there, staring. What had just…? His shoulders slumped and he sighed, before running a hand through his hair and turning.  Once again, he was completely left out of the things he had a suspicion were important.  It was one of the many things John thought he would have gotten used to by now, but as he stood there, it still hurt and frustrated him.

 

Jeanette had moved to the sofa when John came back in the sitting room.  He glanced at her, before looking over at Mrs. Hudson.  He shrugged a bit, and Mrs. Hudson sighed and sipped her tea.

 

He wandered over to sit next to Jeanette when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom again.  Without a word, he grabbed his dramatically long coat and tugged it on as he went down the stairs.  Everyone stared, listening to the front door open and the sounds of traffic floating in briefly before it was shut again.  Things were awkward and quiet, before Greg cleared his throat and stepped away from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe to the bedroom and went into the kitchen to pour another drink.

 

Another twenty minutes or so passed as Mrs. Hudson, bless her, attempted to start up conversation again.  She pulled Greg and Molly into discussions of Christmas plans, leaving John standing where he was just watching.  Jeanette didn’t say a word.  They managed for a bit, when Molly’s mobile went off this time. She read it with a slight sigh.

 

“Duty calls, it looks like,” she announced, putting her mobile in her purse and pulling on her jacket. “Body.”

 

“Thank you for coming, dear,” Mrs. Hudson called out. John said his goodbye, distracted. A body?  _You’re going to find her dead._ That’s what Sherlock had said. Dead… He was at Bart’s. It made sense. Concerned, John looked at his own mobile to find a text, not from Sherlock, but from Mycroft.

 

_Search the flat. -MH_

 

John wanted to groan.  That only meant one thing.  Mumbling, he mentioned the text to Mrs. Hudson, who headed towards Sherlock’s bedroom.  John headed across the flat, checking the fireplace and the desk over next to the windows. He was looking for drugs, of course. For whatever reason, Mycroft thought tonight could be a risk.  Sure, Sherlock had been distracted earlier, but… that didn’t really mean anything. He hoped it didn’t mean anything. John didn’t know what to do if this was actually a danger night.  He was well aware of Sherlock’s past and battle with drugs by this point, but it had never come to heads quite this much.  Mycroft seemed sure.  That wasn’t good.

 

He found nothing, of course.  He checked all the tiny places that felt like somewhere Sherlock would hide things, trying to be clever.  There was no sign of anything drug-related, not even any empty paraphernalia. John couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved at that.

 

“I’m gonna go on,” Greg announced when John came back from checking the kitchen, having done a look through the bathroom in his attempt to help, his jacket already on. “Dorset comes early.”

 

“All right,” John nodded, clasping his shoulder. “Ta for coming, sorry about… you know.”

 

“It’s Sherlock,” Greg sighed, shrugging. He offered John a half-hearted smile. “Though I suppose its best knowing now.  Got a lot to do.”

 

“Call me if you need anything.”

 

“Thanks, John.  The same to you, if this really is a danger night.  Been there many times before with ‘im.  Have a good Christmas,” Greg nodded, waving at Mrs. Hudson and Jeanette before turning to head out the door.  John’s phone rang almost immediately after. Mycroft Holmes. John sighed and answered.

 

“He’s on his way,” Mycroft announced before John could get out a word.  John turned, walking back into the sitting room, brow furrowed. “Have you found anything?”

 

“No.  Did he take the cigarette?” John asked.  It was a plan the two of them had discussed long ago to try and determine Sherlock’s state of mind.  Take the cigarette and Sherlock would be completely ignoring the fact that he had stopped ages ago, letting the cravings take over, which was the slippery slope to other cravings. In not taking the cigarette, it would help show how Sherlock may have been in an emotional and intellectual battle, but nothing so severe as to compromise him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Shit,” John sighed, turning to look at Mrs. Hudson curiously. “He’s coming.  Ten minutes.”

 

“There’s nothing in the bedroom,” she told him, shaking her head worriedly.  Grimacing, John lifted his mobile again and turned back around, glancing over at where Jeanette was sitting with her arms crossed, staring out of one of the windows.

 

“Looks like he’s clean,” he told Mycroft on the other line. “Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?”

 

“No, but I never am,” Mycroft sighed. “You have to stay with him, John.”

 

“I’ve got plans,” John said, looking at Jeanette again. She had mentioned earlier staying the night together at her place after the party, before John was off to Harry’s in the morning.

 

“No.”

 

“Mycroft,” John tried to protest. “M-”

 

It fell on deaf ears, of course. Mycroft had already hung up. Bloody Holmeses, commanding and running his damn life.  This wasn’t going to go over well.  The point of the evening was to make Jeanette feel included and see about getting rid of some of the tension between them.  The way the night went, for him to have to cancel now… Yeah.  Bit not good.  He chewed on his lip, staring at his mobile, before pocketing it and squaring his shoulders. Best to get this over with.

 

He made his way over to the sofa, where Jeanette was staring down at the empty cushion next to her.  He sat down, turning to face her, and she didn’t meet his eyes until after she’d sat up straighter.  A bit further away from him, he couldn’t help but notice. Great.

 

“I am really sorry,” he started, shoulders slumping. Jeanette sighed and shook her head.

 

“You know, my friends are wrong about you,” she said. “You’re a _great_ boyfriend.”

 

John blinked, brow furrowed.  He tilted his head and sat up straighter himself. Admittedly, that was not what he’d expected her to say. 

 

“Okay,” he said hesitantly, nodding and threading his fingers together in his lap. “That good.  I mean, I always _thought_ I was great.”

 

“And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man,” Jeanette said hurriedly, staring at the watch on her wrist.  Instantly she was leaning forward and grabbing her shoes, working on putting them on as quickly as she could.  John groaned.  Great, here it went.

 

“Jeanette, please,” he sighed, barely keeping himself from pinching the bridge of his nose.  Another relationship ruined by Sherlock Holmes.  How could he have not seen this coming?

 

“No, I mean it.  It’s heartwarming.  You’ll do anything for him,” Jeanette said bitterly, snapping her words. She pushed off the couch and started to storm away, grabbing her coat. “And he can’t even tell your girlfriends apart.”

 

“No, I’ll do anything for you,” John fumbled, pushing off the couch as well and following her across the room. He was grasping at straws and he knew it, but he had to try. “Just tell me what it is I’m not doing. Tell me!”

 

“Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!” she all but shouted, buttoning up her coat and staring at John.

 

“I’ll walk your dog for you,” John announced, reaching out to touch her arm.  Jeanette froze, staring, her mouth open. “Hey, I’ve said it now.  I’ll even walk your dog…”

 

“I don’t _have_ a dog!” Jeanette said, blinking.  John felt his heart sink.  Well, that did it. That was the final nail in the coffin and he knew it.

 

“No, because that was… the last one…” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “Okay.”

 

“Jesus!” Jeanette exclaimed, leaning down and snatching up her bag.

 

“I’ll call you,” John tried.

 

“No!” she denied, clomping down the steps without a look back.

 

“Okay,” John sighed, exasperated, and turned. Bloody hell.  Well, what Sherlock hadn’t done, John felt like he did a pretty good job cocking up.  What a wonderful event this party had turned out to be.

 

“That really wasn’t very good, was it?” Mrs. Hudson asked after a few moments of silence.  John sighed; he had honestly forgotten she was still there. 

 

John suddenly needed a drink.  A stronger drink.  He glanced over his shoulder at his landlady, who was regarding him with nothing but sympathy, before shaking his head and going into the kitchen. He dug around in the cabinets until he found a bottle of brandy that looked like it hadn’t been touched in a while. It wasn’t his, but he couldn’t be arsed. The least Sherlock could do was provide John with some brandy.  Sod it.

 

He downed the first glass he poured almost instantly, noticing afterwards that some of the glasses in the sitting room had been cleaned up and Mrs. Hudson was no where to be found.  That woman was truly a blessing in the form of a landlady. He sighed, pouring himself another and walking through the sitting room in a daze.

 

If he was being honest with himself, now that Jeanette had gone off in a storm, John wasn’t fretting over it too much. He had cared about her, sure. She was gorgeous and sweet and had been very funny.  But… he supposed he really should have seen it coming.  Part of him wanted to give up on dating completely for a while, because life with Sherlock didn’t really allow for an easy dating life.  He was either cancelling all the time, or ending up with his girlfriends in mortal danger, and that could really turn a girl off.  It was all so frustrating, and while he could easily enough point at where Sherlock had caused complications, it wasn’t just that, was it?

 

Groaning, he took a long sip and turned to snatch a book off the desk, rescuing it from where it was buried under a messy stack of papers.  It was some mystery novel Sarah had bought him ages ago as a light-hearted joke, teasing him about how perhaps it was a bit like his life and he should read how other people handled it. He had forgotten about it after only getting through two chapters, what with all the business Moriarty had stirred up, and it had sat there ever since.  He regarded it silently, gazing at the cover, before sighing and taking it over to his chair.  It’s not like he’d be doing anything constructive while he waited for Sherlock to get back, so why not?

 

He spent a bit more time drinking his brandy than he did actually reading, but what little he was getting through, John had to admit he enjoyed.  He doubted how much of it would stick, because his mind kept drifting back to Sherlock. He was worried. Maybe Mycroft was just being the overcautious older brother, but when either Holmes brother felt concerned, John had decided that it was definitely cause for concern.

 

He was in the middle of rereading the same sentence for the fifth time when he heard footsteps on the stairs. John glanced up, finally looking over his shoulder as Sherlock floated into view.  He shifted, closing his book and peering a bit closer.

 

“Oh, hi,” he greeted.

 

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge that John had spoken.  Surprise bloody surprise. His head moved slowly, eyes flicking back and forth across everything.  John remained quiet, waiting, watching.  He could never help but wonder what exactly he was seeing when he scanned things like this.

 

“You okay?” he tried again after a few moments. Sherlock seemed to look at him now, and John turned a bit more in his chair.  Then, he turned on his heel and headed through the kitchen and down the hall.

 

“Hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time,” was all the man said, before a sound of the door shut and John was left alone again. John sat, frozen for a moment, before sighing and all but slamming his book down on the arm of his chair. He scrubbed at his face roughly and blinked, staring over at the dying fire.

 

He wanted nothing more than to get up and go back there, force Sherlock to say something.  Standing, John inhaled deeply and clenched his fists, walking through the kitchen and gazing down the hall.  He stared at the shut door to Sherlock’s bedroom, chewing on his bottom lip, thinking. In the end, though, he abandoned any thought at wanting to “help” (because he really doubted Sherlock would appreciate it), and went up to bed.

 

*

 

Bags packed and Sherlock nowhere to be seen, John was off to Harry’s.  He had really not wanted to believe Sherlock’s remark last night about his sister not being sober, but the trip to her flat would reveal it one way or the other.

 

“Baby brother!!” she greeted upon answering the door, grinning and pulling him in for a hug.  John returned it hesitantly, patting her back and sighing.

 

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” he smiled, stepping inside and moving so she could shut the door. “Wouldn’t quite say I’m a baby though, yeah? I was in the army and everything.”

 

“You’ll always be my baby brother,” she dismissed, gesturing for John to follow her.  They headed into her sitting room, and John noticed the empty bottle tucked under the couch.  His heart sank. Of course she was still drinking. Pressing his lips together, he focused on dropping his bag and pointedly not looking at it or bringing it up.

 

“So, how’s… Jeanette?” she asked after they’d both sat down with a cup of tea.  John shrugged.

 

“Fine, I guess?” he said, managing a smile. Harry’s eyes slanted.

 

“You’re not dating anymore,” she deadpanned. John closed his eyes, and his sister groaned. “Come on, John, you liked her!  What happened?”

 

“Take a guess,” he muttered, staring into his teacup.

 

“John… You seriously let that ridiculous flatmate of yours ruin another relationship?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows. “Jesus, bro-”

 

“Please, I don’t want to hear it,” John said, raising a hand. “It was messy enough, and I’m well aware of Sherlock’s interference and all that.  You don’t need to lecture me.”

 

“I just don’t understand why you let him do it to you constantly,” Harry said, ignoring his request to leave it. She always did. John was hardly surprised by her anymore either, it seemed. “That’s, what… six girls now? Come on, John.”

 

“I know, Harry, I just…” John started, looking up at her. He worked his mouth, trying to figure out how to phrase it.  He covered his mouth with his hand and rubbed slowly, huffing. “This is my life now, I guess. This insanity. This whirlwind. You haven’t met Sherlock. You don’t know what he’s like. He just… It’s really hard to put into words.  He’s insane and brilliant and yeah, maybe he is a bit dumb when it comes to people and whatnot, but. I don’t know, Harry. It’s amazing.”

 

Harry stared at him.  Her tea completely forgotten, she was staring at him like he’d grown a second head.  John shifted, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes for a brief moment. Did he miss something? Why was she…?  Licking his lips, he looked down at his tea and huffed.

 

“ _What is it_?” he asked finally.

 

“John…” Harry said, shaking her head.

 

“What, Harriet??” he asked more forcefully.

 

“Christ, you really don’t know, do you?” Harry asked loudly. “Jesus John, you are so bloody dense.”

 

“Oi!” he fussed, leaning forward in his chair.

 

“Well it’s true!” Harry countered, waving a hand in the air. “For the love of-  Do you not hear yourself?  How smitten you are? You sound like I did when I first got with Clara.  Dear lord, you _like_ him.”

 

  1.   What. John stared.  **What?**



 

“I do not,” he denied, turning and setting his teacup down. “What the hell, Harry, he’s my friend.”

 

“Yeah, but when you talk about him, you have bloody stars in your eyes.”

 

“I do not!” John said. “I’m not gay!”

 

“Never said you were, little brother,” Harry said, shaking her head. “I’ve told you before what I thought about your sexuality.”

 

“We’re not going down this road, Harry,” John groaned. He didn’t want to hear this again. They had gone a few years without having this conversation.

 

“Why won’t you just admit you’re bisexual and get it over with?” Harry asked. “Those boys in uni?  I remember.”

 

“Yeah, I do too,” John muttered. “But that…”

 

“Listen, that aside, you need to really think about this,” Harry said. “You didn’t see your face just then, John. I’m serious.  You… I’m just looking out for you.  This clearly isn’t a simple situation, and especially since he’s your flatmate, you need to think about this.  You can’t hide it from me.  You’ve never been able to.”

 

“Harry…” John groaned again, slumping down in his chair.

 

“Forget it.  It’s Christmas.  But John, seriously? 100% seriously. Take a few minutes to think about all of this.  Because if you don’t, one way or the other, you’ll regret it.  I’m telling you this because you’re my brother and I’m worried about you. Okay?”

 

“Fine,” John muttered. “Fine, I will.”

 

*

 

It was a mixture of many things that finally made John come to terms.  First, there was Irene Adler.  The anger she stirred in him for what was honestly no good reason, when he really thought about it. Her words… _You jealous? **We’re not a couple.** Yes you are._

 

_Look at us both._

 

Then there was New Years.

 

He had sat there, watching Sherlock play his violin. Bringing up Irene, trying to get a bit of insight into that man’s brain.  He was wasting his breath, though, because Sherlock was as tight-lipped as always.  It didn’t settle right with him.  Yet, there remained the fixation on the bloody camera phone; trying to crack the code. Focusing on her, and ignoring John.

 

He sat there and stared at Sherlock’s back, listening to the mixture of seasonal songs and his own, sadder, incredibly emotional compositions.  The man was right in front of him and yet he was further away than ever, and it hurt.

 

That was what did it.  He’d sat there on New Years and hurt.  Harry was right.  Her words on Christmas had stuck with him the entire time.  _How smitten you are?_ He had thought it ridiculous. Smitten over Sherlock Holmes… Surely not.  And yet…

 

Of course, it took months for him to focus and deal with it.  John couldn’t deny that he could be a bit emotionally stunted when it came to things that were this big of a deal.  So Sherlock was more than just a friend to him.  There had always been that ethereal draw John had felt, that had started the day they met.

 

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

 

Three simple words and John had been swept off his feet. It took him this long to realize. Christ, he had it bad, didn’t he? The way a fond warmth grew in him as he watched Sherlock play violin or command a crime scene, how his heart skipped a beat when Sherlock chuckled or gave him a genuine smile, or the dull ache when something kept them apart.  How had he not noticed it before?  Had it really taken Harry berating him for it all to make sense?  It seemed so. 

 

Well, it was time to do something about it. He was tired of chasing after girls he was half interested in.  He never ignored the way Sherlock seemed to insert himself in between John and these women. That had to count for something, surely. Married to his work or not, there was a pull between them.  Holmes and Watson. They were a team, they were inseparable, and that was why this business with The Woman was really getting under his skin.

 

For the first time, there was someone more interesting than John.

 

He wasn’t going to stand by and let it run him down anymore.

 

*

 

John was out getting the shopping when he had the random impulse to take home some wine.  Today was the day.  So, he stood in the alcohol aisle for a lot longer than he probably needed to, trying to remember the brand Sherlock had seemed to like so much last year.  He was awful when it came to wine.  He knew his beers, and some of the harder liquors, but he’d never really bothered with wine.

 

Finally, he found one that looked familiar and grabbed it. He had been tempted to text Mycroft, but realized instantly that would have been the worst idea. He did text Greg, though, to see if the DI had heard of the brand as he stood in line with his basket hooked on his arm. 

 

_Who’s the lucky girl?  -G_

 

John snorted, his mouth twitching up in a smirk. He licked his lips, trying to think the best way to approach the subject.  There wasn’t any guarantee that Sherlock would be the slightest bit interested, and John found that if he actually started to get his hopes up, it was going to end badly.

 

_Fill you in later. Pub soon?  -J_

 

_Sounds great, just tell me when!  -G_

 

John’s leg was bouncing the entire taxi ride home. He couldn’t get his hopes up, sure, but he couldn’t help the nervous energy vibrating through him now. Things had changed between the two of them, they had gotten closer.  Sherlock was his friend.  Yet there was something more.  They gravitated to each other.

 

He sucked in a breath as the taxi pulled up to 221B. Leaning forward, he handed over money for the fare and grabbed his bag of groceries, getting his keys out as he walked up towards the door.  He took the steps two at a time, nudging the door open with his elbow and setting the bag down on the table.  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and bit his lip, pulling the wine out and turning.

 

“Sherlock?” he called out, stepping into the hall and starting to walk towards the younger man, who was just inside his bedroom door.

 

“We have a client,” Sherlock announced, staring in front of him.  John blinked, approaching the man.

 

“What, in your bedroom?” he started to joke, grinning a bit and starting to hold out the wine.  He stopped short as he noticed who Sherlock was looking at, however, his grin falling off his face in an instant.  The nervous energy was completely gone, his eagerness and determination crushed under the frustration that had replaced it.

 

“Oh…” he said, trying not to sound too disappointed and probably failing.  Not that Sherlock noticed, of course, because he was currently staring at Irene bloody Adler, who was asleep in his bed.

 

John was so infuriated he could throw the damn wine against the wall.  He turned on his heel and stormed back down the hall and into the kitchen, getting the bottle in the cabinet before Sherlock noticed he had it.  He shouldn’t be surprised.  As usual, that goddamn Woman got in the way of everything and Sherlock was all she saw. He couldn’t be more disheartened than he was in this moment.

 

As time went on, he got more and more irritated. Irene took a shower. In their shower. Irene walking around their flat in Sherlock’s robe.  Sherlock bloody showing off for her.  They hadn’t looked away from each other in what, five minutes at least?  Not only was it awkward, but it was painful and he was about to walk out.

 

“Hamish,” he said abruptly, causing them both to look at him.  Yeah, he was in the room still. “John Hamish Watson.  If you’re looking for baby names.”

 

He didn’t bother keeping the disdain from his voice. There was a bit of satisfaction at seeing the confused frown Sherlock started to give him at the comment. Once again, those piercing eyes were locked on him, scanning across his face.  John crossed his arms and lifted his chin.  _Yeah, deduce it you arse._

 

Sherlock’s lips parted, the man sucking in a small breath, but Irene was talking again and getting into her phone, which succeeded in drawing his attention yet again.  John turned to stare at the laptop open in front of him, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes as he tried to calm himself.

 

Maybe this was a sign.  Maybe he was getting too ahead of himself buying a bottle of wine and thinking he could burst in the flat with some grand admission. Sherlock didn’t… he didn’t feel things that way.  At least… not about John. Sod it.  The game was on, as the man loved to say, so John did what he did best.  He pushed it down and ignored it.

 

*

 

Irene was gone.  Dead.  John had held the file.  John had been charged with telling Sherlock.  Sherlock kept the phone.

 

_Sherlock kept the phone_.

 

Sherlock, a man who clearly showed no interest in sentimentality, kept the bloody camera phone.  John wanted to get so drunk it wasn’t even funny. It was over and still The Woman haunted their lives.  Sighing through his nose, John dropped down into his chair and scrubbed at his face roughly.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

John blinked, looking up as Sherlock walked by and sat across from him in his own chair.  He tried not to gape, and tilted his head.  Was he hallucinating?  Did Sherlock really ask him what was wrong?

 

“Uh…”

 

“It’s not a trick question John,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Whhyyyyy?” John asked slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. Sherlock rolled his and sighed.

 

“Something is bothering you.  You get into these short, quiet moods and get irritated at every little thing.  Sighing through your nose and the tension in your shoulders are clear signs,” Sherlock rambled, crossing his legs. “You get insufferable when you’re like this and people tend to appreciate being asked if they are okay, giving them the chance to talk out and feel better.  So. What’s wrong?”

 

“Thanks, but I don’t quite need your half-interested charity, Sherlock,” John snapped, forcing himself to stare at the fireplace.

 

“It bothers you that I have the phone,” Sherlock said after what had to be a long five minutes of silence between them. John felt frozen. This was not happening. This was seriously not happening now.

 

“What phone,” he said stiffly.

 

“Don’t be tedious, you know what phone,” Sherlock snapped in his usual annoyance.

 

“What do you want from me, Sherlock?” John sighed. “Yeah, maybe a bit.  Whatever.”

 

“You had wine before,” Sherlock continued. “Why?”

 

“Wine?”

 

“Before,” Sherlock said, gesturing with his hand as if it were obvious. “When The Woman was in the flat.”

 

John could feel the color drain from his face. This was something about Sherlock that could be awful sometimes.  To recall the smallest of details months later when it didn’t seem like he’d been paying attention in the first place.  John’s heart was racing.  He wasn’t ready for this now. 

 

“John, despite what you might think, I don’t know everything.  It would be helpful if you would actually fill in the irritating blanks.  You bought wine.  Irene was in my bed.  To say you were anything but annoyed afterwards would be laughable.  I want to know why.”

 

“No you don’t, Sherlock, just forget about it,” John muttered, crossing his arms.

 

“You say that like I can,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “The wine is in the cupboard, which means whatever motivated you to buy it you have abandoned.  It is a somewhat pricier brand as well, and you are not one to spend frivolously, which means the original intent was an important one.  Yet you still left it up there, unopened for months. Wine is not your common choice of alcohol, you prefer beer, and so getting wine brings with it a more romantic kind of connotation.  So a date, or the intent of one, but one that fell through for some reason or-”

 

“STOP,” John snapped, slamming his fists on the armrests. “Just.  Just stop it now, Sherlock. Stop picking me apart now, because it didn’t matter when I had the wine, because you didn’t even notice-”

 

John fell quiet instantly.  He saw a flash of recognition in Sherlock’s eyes as the pieces fell together.  Anger seeped out of John, defeat taking its place again.  He sighed and slumped down in the chair, staring down at the floor.

 

“Because I didn’t notice that day, you mean,” Sherlock said.  John could feel his eyes locked on his head, but he couldn’t bear to look. “Did you really think I didn’t notice?”

 

John snorted.  He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t really want him to answer that. Did he think that Sherlock, for once, didn’t notice something that John had found so important at the time, because he was too busy fascinated by Irene Adler?  Bloody right he did.  The pain flared up again, the pain he had started to get pretty used to. It was awful.  He hated this.  He hated Harry for making him face it.  He hated Sherlock for… well… nothing really.  And that’s what he hated the most.  It was messed up.

 

“John, as always, you-”

 

“See but don’t observe, yeah, I think I get it,” John interrupted.

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock stressed. 

 

There was something in his voice that forced John to look at him again.  He couldn’t pinpoint what.  However, when he saw the look in Sherlock’s eyes, he found he couldn’t breathe.  He’d never seen his expression so open and earnest before. Sure, Sherlock was actually himself around John, but not even like this.  This was… Lord.  Was this what he thought it was?

 

“Why don’t you go fetch that wine,” Sherlock said in a hushed voice.  John drew in a gasp and straightened as much as he could, his eyes widening. He drummed his fingers along the arm of the chair nervously, looking for any large sign of hesitation; anything that would show Sherlock wasn’t being entirely genuine.

 

That one suggestion, that one thing… Fetch the wine. There was a lot of implication behind that phrase.  Sherlock had clearly figured out how John felt, all of it solidifying with the deduction of the damn wine. Leave it to Sherlock to figure out a confession before John could get the words out.  He wasn’t surprised, and it was… as wonderful as he’d hoped.

 

“Sod the wine,” he managed to say, pushing himself out of his chair.  Sherlock watched him for a split second before doing the same.

 

They met in the middle, colliding together from the force of their movements.  John’s hands were on Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock’s hands were cupping John’s face and they were kissing.  It was messy and rough, noses bumping together as they shifting, trying to find the right way to tilt their heads.  Their teeth clacked together and John felt giddy, laughter bubbling up between their lips.

 

“Are you _laughing_?” Sherlock asked softly, voice soft with affection, and he nipped at John’s lower lip.  The action sent a surge of heat through John’s body, causing his laughter to halt and be replaced with a gasp.

 

“Shut up,” he grinned, clutching even more tightly at Sherlock’s shoulders. “Just bloody kiss me.”

 

Sherlock made a noise that sent a wave of shock through John.  It was a noise he’d never heard before; desperate and wanting.  John shuddered, pushing up on his toes and pressing their lips together again. They started out slower this time, with more purpose, each of them fighting for control every few seconds. Sherlock was an amazing kisser, and John was just about dizzy with it.  He would nuzzle in and nibble on John’s lip, sucking moments later before swiping his tongue across.  John was quickly growing hard at this alone, feeling his knees start to turn to jelly. He had no idea where Sherlock had learned to kiss like this, but it was very efficiently taking John apart.

 

“Bedroom,” he rasped, gazing up at Sherlock sincerely. It was more of an offer, a question, not wanting to take things faster than the younger man was comfortable with. His answer was clear, however, when Sherlock released his face in order to grip his hips and push him towards the kitchen.

 

Sherlock navigated them flawlessly through the flat, not once taking his eyes off John.  He paused every few moments to lean in and start kissing John again. They bumped into the doorframe leading to the hallway, John gasping against Sherlock’s lips as their bodies rubbed together.  John was trembling, and he could feel Sherlock’s erection through his trousers, pressing against his hip.

 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John groaned.

 

“Not quite,” Sherlock smirked.  John smacked him square in the chest and pushed off the wall, tugging the taller man after him as they made their way through the hall. John kicked the bedroom door open just as Sherlock pushed him in, turning them and kissing him roughly as they bumped against the bed.

 

With shaky fingers, John began to undo the buttons of Sherlock’s purple dress shirt, revealing eerily pale skin underneath. This was not the first time seeing his flatmate’s chest, because Sherlock had no boundaries, but this was an entirely different situation.  His heart was pounding and his breathing was harsh, and he didn’t miss the way Sherlock remained completely still as he pushed the garment off his shoulders.

 

Sherlock’s own breathing was ragged, and his eyes were wide and full of emotion and arousal.  Somehow, he knew John needed the moments to do this.  He always knew, damn him.  He bit his lip and ran the pads of his fingers across Sherlock’s chest. His skin was warm and beautiful. He brushed over Sherlock’s nipples, observing the way he sucked in a breath and shivered at the contact. Sensitive, then. John smirked, filing that very useful piece of information in a safe place.

 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice strained. “John, please.”

 

“Yes,” John managed, nodding.

 

It was the permission Sherlock was looking for, and one John was eagerly willing to give.  He barely had time to lift his arms before Sherlock was tugging off his jumper and t-shirt in one smooth motion.  They were chucked somewhere to the side, slender hands already down to his belt buckle.  It was tugged off as well, and once John’s trousers were unbuttoned and hanging loose around his waist, the two of them tumbled onto the bed.  John grunted as his back hit the mattress, and they bounced a few times before falling still.  Sherlock was straddling John’s hips, and rubbing their noses together.

 

“I’ve wanted this…” Sherlock began between gasping breaths. “For so long.”

 

“Ssshhh,” John said gently, pressing a finger against that beautiful cupid’s bow of a mouth Sherlock had.  The younger man kissed the finger in response. John sighed, turning into a soft whimper as Sherlock began nibbling and sucking at his finger. Sherlock’s knees tightened, pressing them closer together, and John gasped.

 

Growling, John pushed himself up and flipped them. Sherlock cried out in surprise, gazing up with wide eyes as John gazed down at him.  Hands flat on the mattress on either side of Sherlock’s head, John licked his lips, watching the way those pale eyes flicked to the motion. Biting on his lip and grinning, John gave a slow and experimental rock of his hips.  Sherlock moaned softly, arching off the bed.

 

“Like that?” John whispered, waiting a moment before doing it again.  He received the same reaction, Sherlock tightening his grip on the duvet under them. _Christ_ he was beautiful.

 

John leaned in and began pressing slow kisses to Sherlock’s neck and chest.  He moved to lick one of the man’s nipples slowly, earning a high-pitched whimper that confirmed his earlier suspicion.  Humming, he repeated the action, before taking the hard nub in between his lips and sucking.

 

Sherlock cried out, a hand quickly moving to the back of John’s head.  He gripped securely, not tugging, seeming to almost ground himself.  He was writhing underneath John’s body, and it was succeeding in turning him on even more.  John wasn’t quick to admit how long he’d dreamed about getting this chance, and here it was… and it was better than any of his dreams had ever been.

 

Shifting his weight onto his good arm, John ran his hand down Sherlock’s side and teased around the band of his trousers. He unbuttoned them and pushed, pleased with the way Sherlock’s hips rose from the bed instantly in order for him to be able to push them down.  He released the man’s nipple in order to move down even more, kissing along Sherlock’s stomach before nuzzling against his silk black pants.  Sherlock whimpered again.

 

The pants were barely restraining Sherlock’s erection. There was a slight damp spot from precum, and John drew in a breath before leaning down and nuzzling against Sherlock’s crotch affectionately.

 

“J-john…” Sherlock whimpered, shifting on the bed.

 

John pushed himself up again and hooked his thumbs around the waistband of his pants.  He glanced up at Sherlock, watching for any protest and finding none. So, as Sherlock’s hips shifted, he pulled them down as well.  Wasting no time, John leaned back down and ran his tongue along the head of his cock. Sherlock cried out again, panting and writhing, tugging at the sheets.  John was breathing heavily through his nose, keeping control and moving slowly, allowing himself to enjoy every moment of this.  He didn’t want to rush a bit of this.

 

He wrapped his lips around the head, tongue running across the slit before sucking gently.  Sherlock arched up even more, making a strangled noise in the back of his throat. John honestly hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so vocal during intimacy, but it was absolutely brilliant. Each noise was shooting through his body and going down to his own erection, throbbing with the desire for relief of its own.

 

Slowly, he took more of Sherlock in his mouth, running his tongue along the underside of the shaft and breathing deeply through his nose.  He hadn’t given a blowjob since some of his earlier days in the army, but he’d always been damn good at giving them and, as it turns out, it was not a skill that was easily forgotten. He rubbed Sherlock’s hips gently, sucking and licking and letting his teeth just barely scrape along the skin.

 

“John, I,” Sherlock gasped after a few minutes of this. “If you don’t… John, I can’t…”

 

John could swear he had never heard Sherlock speak in such broken sentences before.  There was something incredibly flattering about being the one causing the great consulting detective to not be able to finish his sentence. With the way the man was trembling and gasping, though, it was clear what he was trying to say, so with a final slow lick John pulled away.

 

Sherlock lifted his head as a soft whimper left him at the loss of warmth.  His curly hair was already messy, his cheeks and chest flush red, and it was gorgeous. His lips were glistening, parted as he panted.  John bit his lip.

 

“Lube and condoms are in the drawer,” Sherlock managed to say, gesturing vaguely to his bedside table.  John blinked and smiled softly.

 

“It’s incredibly arousing how eager you are,” he said roughly, working on pushing down his trousers and pants as he moved to straddle Sherlock. “But I won’t be penetrating you tonight.”

 

Sherlock blinked, his face shifting at the oncoming disappointment that made his features start to fall. John wasn’t having that. He cupped the younger man’s cheek and pushed his head so they were looking at each other again.

 

“Hey, look at me,” John whispered affectionately, smiling bigger. “I’m not saying I don’t want to fuck you, because God help me I really, _really_ do. Patience, gorgeous. It’ll be better to work up to it. It’s been a long time for us both, I’m sure.”

 

“That’s the doctor in you talking,” Sherlock smirked.

 

“You know I’m right, though,” John chuckled leaning in. He brushed their lips together teasingly, nipping on Sherlock’s lip. “But don’t worry.  I’m still going to blow your mind.”

 

Sherlock groaned as John kissed him roughly, adjusting his position so that they were pressed right against each other. John sighed into the kiss, feeling the slightest bit of relief as his erection rubbed against the soft skin of Sherlock’s hip.  He shuddered, breaking the kiss with a gasp and sliding his hand between them, fingers brushing against Sherlock’s erection again.

 

“What are you- _oh_ ,” Sherlock had started to ask shakily, his answer making itself known when John shifted his hips just enough so that their cocks were rubbing against each other.

 

John clenched his teeth, trying to remain in control. He hardly believed this was all happening.  Sherlock exhaled, breathlessly begging for more, and it made the older man’s head spin. He shifted again, rocking his hips forward and down, grinding against Sherlock with each roll. The detective was panting harshly now, biting his lip so hard John was a bit concerned it would start bleeding.

 

A bit of precum slid between their heads, and John could feel the warm slickness it created.  He groaned and wrapped his hand around both of their cocks, continuing to roll his hips as he began to stroke them both, matching his slow speed.

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock cried out, arching up against him.  It created more friction, causing heat to bubble up deep in John’s stomach. His eyes almost rolled back in his head at the feeling; it was brilliant.  It was _Sherlock_. That fact alone made it difficult to keep from coming on the spot.

 

“Yes,” John gasped, pressing their foreheads together and gazing down at Sherlock’s face.  He couldn’t look away, couldn’t miss every little way his expression changed or his eyes flashed.  It was every vulnerable, human, loving part of Sherlock Holmes and it was all John’s.

 

“God yes.”

 

“More, John, faster,” Sherlock commanded, his own hips rocking up against John’s.  His breath was quickening, and his hands were shaking against John’s back.

 

John tugged at them both, squeezing and rubbing his thumb back and forth along their heads, causing him to twitch. However, when one of Sherlock’s hands came between them as well and wrapped around John’s own, that sealed the deal. They were grinding together, stroking together, fingers almost tangled in each other.  John began to thrust harder, speeding up, feeling his release.

 

However, it was Sherlock that came first. John was hoping. The younger man let out a strangled cry, arching up again and freezing as his orgasm hit. John lifted his head just enough so he could glance down, watching cum cover their stomachs.  He watched the way Sherlock continued to squeeze himself, just at the tip, eyes widening as he saw the way it made his entire body jerk. Sherlock didn’t stop until he was whimpering with sensitivity.

 

John’s breath was ragged.  His own orgasm was right on the edge, but something about witnessing Sherlock like that stopped his brain completely. He barely registered a ragged, breathless laugh, and then Sherlock’s slick had was wrapped around his cock again and stroking efficiently.  John whimpered, his body taking over where his brain was still jump-starting. His hips began to move again and his vision blurred briefly.

 

“Sherlock, ohfuck, Sherlock!” John cried out, his head falling back as he came.  Sherlock’s hand continued to move, and John groaned at the feeling. Just when he thought he was done he felt another twitch, gasping and biting his lip.  He’d never witnessed an orgasm so drawn out before. He saw white.

 

Finally, he collapsed, half on top of Sherlock. They were both sticky and sweaty and panting.  Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling, John at Sherlock.  Neither of them spoke.  There was nothing to say, not in this moment.  What could they say that would make this any more perfect than it already was?

 

John was starting to doze off when Sherlock shifted a bit, causing him to lazily blink his eyes open and look over at him.

 

“We ought to at least get a flannel, if we’re not going to shower,” he said, voice back to its’ normal, composed tone. However, there was gentle affection rumbling there.  That was a bit newer. John smiled.

 

“Yup, why don’t you go get that,” he muttered, yawning. Sherlock just chuckled and rolled out of bed, coming back a few moments later with a damp, warm flannel. He cleaned them both off before tossing the cloth on the floor.  John snorted and shook his head, but made no move to fight when slender arms wrapped around him and drew him close.  He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and was asleep within moments.

 

*

 

Two different things caused John to wake. The first was a bit of sunlight trickling in through the drapes, hitting him right in the eyes. The second was the feeling of fingers on his shoulder.  Sleepily, he smiled, before registering which shoulder was being touched and tensed almost out of reflex.

 

“Sssh,” Sherlock whispered soothingly. “Go back to sleep, John.”

 

His voice had that same affection to it, but Sherlock also sounded a bit distracted.  John blinked, yawning, and rubbed at his eyes before turning to glance back at his… well, he wasn’t just his flatmate anymore, was he?

 

“This is the first chance I’ve had to really examine it,” Sherlock muttered in way of explanation as he continued to trace the lines of his scar. “I’ve seen it as you left the shower, I’ve known about it for ages.  But…”

 

“It was quite a while ago,” John said, voice still rough with sleep.  He shifted a bit, trying to get used to these sensations.  No one ever touched his scar, apart from himself.  He drew in a breath as Sherlock’s fingers were replaced with his lips.

 

“Such a simple thing,” Sherlock whispered against his skin.  John shivered a bit, closing his eyes and holding his breath. “Such a simple thing that could have taken you from this world.  Yet, instead, it brought you to me.”

 

John bit his lip, feeling heat prickle at his eyes. He let out a breath.

 

“Sherlock-” he started, but fell silent when Sherlock pressed right up against him.  Arms wrapped around his waist, Sherlock’s fingers sliding back and forth along one hipbone.  John could feel his cock, already half-hard, twitching in interest.

 

“Something you should know,” he muttered, turning in the other man’s arms to gaze up at him, smiling softly.  Sherlock’s pale eyes drifted down his body, realization shining before John had even said the words.

 

“Oh?” he asked anyway, deciding to play along. The hand drifted down further, fingers wrapping around John and stroking, slowly bringing him to a full erection.

 

“Mmmm, yes,” John sighed, pressing up into the touch. Hunger took over again, waking him completely. “I love an orgasm first thing in the morning.”

 

“Well we have _that_ in common,” Sherlock said, pressing his own erection up against John’s arse. John determined that second that they would not get out of bed at all that day.  Not if he could help it.


End file.
